


Needs Must

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: ...a strange combination of concern and alarm settled like a cold mantle over him. Rosie, recently enrolled in nursery school, succumbed to some new virus every other week, it seemed, and Sherlock recalled that the last bout, though short-lived, had been quite severe. Molly had stepped in to watch the ailing toddler for an entire day when Sherlock had dragged John off on yet another case. Apparently this was the result...





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'Snow' prompt...
> 
>  
> 
> **********************

**Back from the hinterlands, case closed. - SH**

 

**:-) - MHx**

 

Sherlock gave a chuff of amusement at the emoji and the little x, not to mention the rapidity of her reply. He’d been too long without his darling pathologist. 

She’d been on the schedule at Bart’s for five nights of the graveyard shift ( _ha!_ ), with no time to cater to the needs of consulting detectives since she’d have to actually sleep in between -- or try to. Sleeping during the day wasn’t really her strong suit. He was pretty sure she had thought it a blessing when he’d been called out of town on an investigation. And absence did make the heart grow fonder, after all. 

_His_ heart, and, indeed, every inch of him, was feeling _very_ fond, and tonight’s shift should be her last for several days. Just in time, too. There was a storm coming in, a real winter storm with snow predicted, even in London. After she’d recovered somewhat from the effects of the last five nights, he was fairly certain she’d be willing to hole up with him for the duration and cater to his _needs_ in the most delightful manner possible. Hopefully at 221B. 

He’d even allow her to bring her cat. 

But first, her recovery period. He popped off another text. 

 

**Heavy snow predicted, correlating with increased chance of BOREDOM. Can you spare a kidney or two? - SHx**  

 

**Not at work - MH**  

 

Sherlock gaped a bit at his mobile, then...

 

**Did you get off early? - SH**

 

**I’ve caught Rosie’s flu.  :( - MH**

 

His brows rose, and a strange combination of concern and alarm settled like a cold mantle over him. Rosie, recently enrolled in nursery school, succumbed to some new virus every other week, it seemed, and Sherlock recalled that the last bout, though short-lived, had been quite severe. Molly had stepped in to watch the ailing toddler for an entire day when Sherlock had dragged John off on yet another case. Apparently this was the result. 

He tried to remember the last time Molly had missed work due to illness and found he could not readily do so. 

It must be bad. 

As well as contagious. 

He winced that these thoughts even occurred to him. They were unworthy. He had not yet spoken that vow, _in sickness and in health_ , but really that was a mere formality. 

The situation was at least partially his fault, and clearly he was obligated to determine her condition and to offer help as needed. For the love he bore her, there should have been no hesitation on this point. And yet… she loved him, too. She wouldn’t want him needlessly exposed. Not to mention the fact that he was wholly ignorant of patient care. 

Well, not wholly ignorant. He’d certainly been on the receiving end often enough. 

Perhaps she was over the worst of it. Rosie had returned to school within three days, after all. Surely an adult, with a more developed immune system, would recover even more quickly. 

He could assist remotely. Have some things delivered. Some Thai food, perhaps, from that little place down the road from her flat -- soothing Pad See Ew, or a mildly spicy Tom Kha Gai. And flowers. She’d like flowers. A cheery arrangement, with bright colours. Or even a dozen roses. Even _two_ dozen. 

He considered sending her another text. But no. A phone call was required to show the solicitude proper to the occasion. 

His first call went to voicemail, which seemed a bad sign. She’d answered his texts readily enough, so obviously she had her mobile close at hand. He grimly made a second attempt, and this time she picked up. 

“What?” came her voice, short, muffled, and rather constricted. 

Disconcerting. She did not sound delighted in the least. He cleared his throat a bit, then carefully said, “Molly. How… how long have you been ill?” 

“Three days.” 

And then, to Sherlock’s horror, there came the sound of a piteous sob through the phone.  “Molly?” he said, sharply. Another sob… and then a series. “Molly, what’s wrong?” he demanded. “Is it more than just flu?” 

The sobs continued, though he could tell she was trying to control them enough to speak. Finally she managed, “Nooo! But… it’s _awful_. I’m s-sorry. I can’t h-help it.” 

To Sherlock’s credit, after an initial sinking of the heart, his voice was firm, calm, and compassionate: “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be right there.” 

He’d been through enough in his life to know when the tide was against him.

 

*

 

She looked terrible. Rumpled and red-eyed, half propped against a pile of pillows, an electric heating pad sitting atop her messy hair, cheeks white, lips quivering… 

Oh, God. She was going to start crying again. 

“Hooper, what the devil have you done to yourself?” he demanded, trying for a nice combination of teasing, sympathy, and provocation. He put his bags down by the door, went over to the bed, and sat down beside her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, again, making an effort to pull herself together. “It’s my head. It’s _so bad_. I’ve tried _everything!_ ” She broke into a fit of coughing, turning away from him with an agonized grimace, her heating pad slipping to one side, unheeded. “You shouldn’t have come,” she said, when she finally could. “You’ll only end up catching it, too.” 

“No, I won’t,” he said, with far more confidence than he actually felt. He brushed her hair back behind her ear and frowned at the heat of her skin. “Have you taken your temperature?” 

“38. For days.” 

“Good God! What have you taken for it?” 

“Paracetamol. And Oxycodone for my head, but even that’s not helping!” 

Tears were slipping down her cheeks. 

“Good God,” he muttered again, and pulled out his mobile to call John.

 

*

 

It was more than two hours before John finally arrived. 

“Sorry. Mrs. Green was at the shops, stocking up against this storm. It’s already starting to snow.” 

“Who the devil is Mrs. Green?” Sherlock asked, annoyed and distracted. He’d tried to keep himself busy, feeding Toby, hunting down a vase and arranging the roses he’d brought. Molly had refused the Thai food, but finally consented to sip some juice cut with water, watching him over the top of the glass as he tidied her bedroom and en-suite, unpacked his suitcase. _You can’t stay! You’ll catch it!_ she’d reiterated in a hoarse moan, but he’d only given her a scathing look and an impatient _Don’t be ridiculous!_ , resulting in more tears on her part and more guilt on his. 

He’d never seen her weep this much, in all the years of their acquaintance. It was deeply unsettling. Almost frightening. 

John raised a brow, but replied, evenly, “Mrs. Green’s my neighbor, the one that watches Rosie sometimes, when there’s an emergency. Molly qualifies, I take it?” 

“Yes. Come and see,” Sherlock said, and led the way.

 

*

 

Three quarters of an hour later, he finally closed the door on John, the snow, and the freezing night. He and John had agreed they would keep in touch by text, but John didn’t foresee any dire developments ahead. He’d given Molly a couple of jabs, one an antibiotic, the other something that began to work almost immediately to ease her extreme headache, which John suspected was due to a severe attack of sinusitis, one of two complications common to this particular strain of influenza. The other was pneumonia. But John had left her a course of oral antibiotics, to supplement the injection, and seemed fairly certain she'd be on the road to recovery by the time the snow was melting. 

That wasn’t what was worrying Sherlock, now, however. 

He slowly returned to Molly’s bedroom. She barely opened her eyes when he entered, but they widened, her alarm increasing, as he crossed the room and sat down beside her on the bed. 

“Wh-what?” she stammered. 

He shouldn’t be doing this -- causing her more distress, but in spite of that, he opted for honesty. “You smiled for John -- when he came in the room. But not for me. Don’t you want me here?” 

She gave a helpless bark of laughter that was more like another sob. “Sherlock… I told you! I don’t want you exposed to this. And… and I don’t want you to _see_ me like this! John’s a doctor… it’s _different_.” 

“How is it different? You know I’m not squeamish. Is it vanity, then? God, Molly, you’ve seen me at _my_ worst too many times to count!” 

“It’s not _that!_ ” she protested, then hesitated. “Well… maybe. I know I look horrible. But I _feel_ horrible, too, so horrible I can’t do anything about _looking_ that way!” 

“Ah! I see.” It was all becoming clear to him. “You need help, but you don’t _want_ to need it. Not _my_ help, at least.” 

“Th-that’s not true!” 

“Oh, yes, it is,” he said, firmly. “I’m the one who comes to _you_ for help. You’ve _never_ come to me.” 

She stared at him, chagrin coalescing on her features. She tried then to fight it. “You…  you don’t want to be here. Not really.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “If you weren’t at bloody death’s door, Hooper, I’d give you a good shake.” He was inwardly amused at her shocked expression, but went quickly on. “Of course I want to be here! I admit I’d prefer you were in the pink and ready to enjoy a few days of snowbound decadence with me, but that doesn’t mean I’m at all unwilling to address the issue at hand and do everything in my power to nurse you back to health. You know, sometimes _I like to be needed, too_.” 

There was a little color in her cheeks now, and she had the grace to look troubled and ashamed as she caught hold of his hand with both of hers. “I… I hadn’t thought of it that way,” she admitted, sounding close to tears again. 

“Well, I forbid you to weep any more, tonight, and you can spend the next few days thinking about it. I’ll do my best to make you comfortable while you do so. Are we agreed?” 

One tear escaped and slid down her cheek. “ _In sickness and in health?_ ” 

He allowed himself a slight smile. “Yep.” He patted her clinging hands, then gently disengaged himself and rose to his feet. “I’m going to heat up some of the Pad See Ew I brought. You’re quite sure you don’t want any?” 

She cleared her throat. “I’ll try to eat a little, if you’d like to bring me some,” she said in a small voice. 

He nodded, extremely pleased, both at her willingness to eat and at the moral advantage he seemed to have gained, however temporarily. He started for the door. 

But she spoke again. “Sherlock…” 

“Hmmm?” He turned back to her. 

“You wouldn’t really shake me.” 

He sighed. “No, of course not. But that ring on your finger represents a fifty/fifty proposition. You need to remember that.” 

“Yes.” She finally smiled at him, just a bit, relaxed against her pillows again, and closed her eyes. 

He stood looking at her for a long moment. Thinking what a wonderful, fearful thing was love.

 

*

 

The drug John had given her to ease her aching head was working all too well. She tried to resist, but it felt so good to lay back against the freshly fluffed pillows, to close her eyes, just for a moment… 

The bed dipped beside her as someone -- _her_ someone, obviously -- sat down. She managed to open her eyes again, looking blearily up at him. 

“You can’t sleep yet,” he said. “Here, look at me.” He gently tilted her face toward him and then began to wipe it with a damp facecloth, the water so deliciously warm the cloth let off steam in the cool air of the room. 

It felt heavenly. She sighed in pure pleasure, letting her eyes drift shut. He was careful, and thorough, and when he was through he blotted the moisture away from her clean skin with a soft, dry towel. 

But then he spoke again, that voice she loved, low and edged with fond humor. “No rest for the wicked yet, sweet. Sit up, please.” 

With a great effort, and his insistent help, she roused herself to do so, wincing at her sore hip (she sometimes thought John was a bit too free with a needle), opening her eyes once more to see what Sherlock would be at. 

He had her hairbrush in hand. 

“Just for the record,” he murmured, as he began to sort out her tangled hair, “you _look_ adorable, not horrible… and I’ll thank you not to argue the point… you know how I value truth…  and objectivity.” 

She gave an amused sniff. 

“But,” he went on, “ _feeling_ horrible is really worse… some judicious grooming never comes amiss in these cases… and as you know… my wisdom comes from vast experience. There.” He gave a definitive nod as he set the brush down, then eased her gently back against the pillows. “Even more adorable.” 

She gave a sleepy chuckle. “I love you.” 

“I know. I love you, too. Do you want the heating pad for your head again?” 

“No. It’s alright. Thank you.” 

“All included in the service.” His eyes traveled over her, his smile quirking. “A sponge bath tomorrow, perhaps, unless you can stand up long enough for me to help you shower.” He waggled his brows suggestively. 

She managed to smile, but her eyelids were so heavy now. 

He bent close, blurring… she felt his kiss against her forehead… his breath against her ear: _Dinner in five minutes, love, if you can stay awake..._  

But it seemed she could not. Peace settled in her heart, like a warm mantle, and Pad See Ew would have to wait till tomorrow, too.

 

~.~

 


End file.
